Page 6 of Howl for Me
Fifteen minutes.
I don’t know what kind of job this is, or who the voice on the phone belongs to. But I know one thing for sure; I’m going to show up.
And I’m not leaving Los Angeles without a fight.
Chapter Four
Thehouseloomsinfront of me, quiet and still. A house? This can’t be right. It looks nothing like a supermarket. There isn’t even a sign, just a heavy black door that feels like it’s watching me, waiting. I glance down at the address to be sure, but it matches. I move toward the door, then stop, frozen mid-step. I wait a little too long, caught between knocking and running.
That’s when I hear it. Smooth as hell, a car pulls in behind me, the engine purring like a cat. I turn just as the door of a black Cadillac swings open. A man steps out slowly, like he’s got nowhere to be and knows the world will wait for him. Curly brown hair, thick mustache, flowy silk shirt open halfway to his stomach, and bell bottoms hugging narrow hips. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and a cigarette dangling from his lips.
He doesn’t even glance at me at first. Just strolls up toward me like this is all routine. Behind me, he stops and exhales with boredom. He smells like smoke and pine needles and something a little wild, like the woods after it rains. He smells so good.
“Door ain’t gonna open itself, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? The word is supposed to sound tender and nice, but he manages to make it sound like an insult.
I glance at him sideways. “I wasn’t sure if this was the right place.”
He says nothing, brushing past me to push the door open with a huff.
Rude. I roll my eyes. Still, I follow him inside. The house is… opulent. Deep red velvet, gold-framed art, mirrors on every wall. He drops onto a red velvet couch like he owns it. Maybe he does. I take a few steps into the room, suddenly unsure if I’m supposed to sit, stand, or run out the door.
“Did I speak to you on the phone?” I ask.
He doesn’t look at me. Just exhales and says, “Nope.”
“Do you live here?”
He sighs again, then finally removes his sunglasses. His eyes are chestnut brown, bloodshot, and sharp. He looks at me like he would much rather I stop talking.
“You lost, stray?”
I blink. “Stray?”
He doesn’t explain. Just smirks, like that answers everything.
I cross my arms. “I’m here about a job. This is the address that was given to me.”
He drags his eyes down my frame, slow and deliberate. He smirks. “That so?”
“Yes, that’s so. So sorry if my questions bother you, but someone asked me to be here.”
He leans back, “You’re forgiven.”
I roll my eyes, “Charming.”
His grin is lazy, crooked, and a little dangerous. “You don’t look the type.”
I fold my arms. “What type do I look like? Not that your opinion matters.”
He chuckles. It's cocky and a little cruel. “Not the type to be working here, that’s for sure.”
I don’t know what here is even supposed to be. He finds me amusing; I’m a joke to him. I’ve dealt with men like him before, but none of them looked like this. None of them smelled like fresh sin and forest air. I’m about to ask him who the hell he is when another man enters. He’s sharp and polished, with jet-black hair and a suede suit that fits perfectly. Rings gleam on his fingers, his skin carries a deep tan, and a hint of expensive cologne hangs in the air as he moves closer.
“You the broad that called?” His voice cuts across the velvet-drenched room like the snap of a switchblade.
I nod, straightening my shoulders. “Yeah. Cassidy. I called about the job.”
